


A promise

by orphan_account



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Death, Grief/Mourning, I Made Myself Cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 09:26:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12009831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He had never thought the grief, the desperation, the anguish, the utter and unchangeable sense of solitude would strike him in that way.





	A promise

He had never thought it would _actually_ happen. He had never dared thinking it, not wanting to face the possibility, too painful to even _think_ about it.  
Aramis had promised, after all. He had promised, he had _sworn_ that day, the sunshine in his eyes, a beam on his lips and happiness all around them.   
_“I will never let you go. Not now that I've got you. I will never let you go.”_  
He had promised, he had _promised_ , and where was he, now? Not there, not with him. But he had _promised_.

He had never thought about it, not really.  
Maybe only for a fleeting moment, when everything seemed to beautiful to be real, when Aramis put himself in danger, but even then, it had only been a “ _what do I do if Aramis dies?”_ , that had now become a “ _what do I do now that Aramis is dead?”.  
_

And he had never thought the grief, the desperation, the anguish, the utter and unchangeable sense of solitude would strike him in that way. He had always assumed it would be like a train, a train that would hit you every day as you wake up, every day as you realize that the bed is still empty, every day as you have to make only one cup of coffee. He had always imagined it would break him, it would make him curl into a ball and refuse to go on with his life, _because there was no life besides Aramis_.  
But then, he was sure, the sorrow would fade, would become a lulling pain in the back of his chest, a little, daily sting that would never let the wound heal, not completely. _  
_

It had gone the other way round.

It had been calm, at first, painful, but calm. He had gone through all the stages without losing it, he had gone through Constance's tears and d'Artagnan's agonizing hurt, he had smiled and thanked and said that yes, he would call if he needed anything. He had gone through Athos' speech at the funeral with surprising composure and steadiness, had arranged everything with efficiency and people would look at him funnily, but he wouldn't care. He hadn't broken down, not yet, he had handled everything, busying himself with tasks that kept his mind occupied, too terrified to let himself think about anything but “ _flowers, what flowers he would want? He wouldn't want them, you idiot”_ , and “ _should I do a speech? Should I let Athos do it?”_

He had gone on like this for a whole week, until it was all over. And then one day, it had all struck him.

He had opened the door of their flat, his mind somewhere else, preoccupied because Athos was drinking way too much for his own good, drowning his sorrow and guilt in a bottle, and he had thrown the keys on the little plate on the kitchen table, and Aramis' jacket was on the couch but he hadn't seen his shoes, so Porthos had called “ _love, you home?”_ , before realizing that _no_ , Aramis wasn't home. And he never would be again.  
So he had fallen on his knees, all hell breaking loose, suffocating him, making him choke on tears and air, physically hurting him, making him hold his chest with both hands because if he didn't, he was sure he would just break, right where he was, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to get up, and he had felt, _felt_ his heart breaking and he had lied, panting, tears streaming on his face, longing for Aramis’ arms around him, and he had cried again, aloud this time, alone.

And after that, it had been a daily torture, waking up with the hope of it being a "good" day, going through his tasks with the same numb, steady calmness, and then waking up at night, sobbing uncontrollably, still holding his chest, still crying Aramis' name, begging him to _"please, please, oh please, come back to me, oh God. Oh, please, come back”_ and falling asleep again, the echo of Aramis' last words in his dreams, the pain following him even in his sleep, so that he would wake up the next day, exhausted. And alone, always alone.

And every day, he would tell himself; he would try to convince himself that it was a new day, wasn't it? He wouldn't break down this time, he would be there for Athos, and Constance, and Anne and everyone else.  
And he would get home, alone again, and this time it would be the cold spot on the couch, or the unused mug, the one they had bought in Santiago de Compostela the day they had made love for the first time, or the book Aramis hadn't finished reading to Porthos _("I will never hear his voice again,”_ he had suddenly realized, _“I will never hear him reach my favourite part”)_ and it all started again.

Again, again and again, until he couldn't breathe anymore, until he was desperate for not feeling anymore, until he asked Athos his best bottle of scotch, until he didn't even cry anymore, he just sobbed and sobbed, until his throat was hoarse and sore.  
He had never thought he would ever regret being alive, he had never thought he would ever wish, truly wish, to _“just stop it, please, please, oh Athos, just make it stop, please, I can't do this anymore, make it stop”._ But Athos couldn't, he couldn't do anything, he could just hold him into his arms and cry and cry with him, until they fell asleep like this, curled up together, a miserable mess of broken hearts.  
He had never thought he would ever want to stop living.

And yet he did.


End file.
